


Brother

by theunremarkable



Series: Kodaline [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The First Avenger, Epistolary, Explicit Language, Howling Commandos - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Bucky Barnes, Period-Typical Homophobia, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25822789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunremarkable/pseuds/theunremarkable
Summary: “Sarge has finally got a letter, and here goes," Burnie boasts to the group’s hoo-rahs and hoots and go-on’s. “Dear Mr Sergeant Sir, glad you got your stink away from me, ain’t missing that, from S.G Rogers. P.S The End.”“That don’t sound like the words no mother would give their only son, and you clear as day aren’t a Rogers, so who’s Missus S.G?”“Stupid Goddam Rogers is who, now give it,” he growls, the group clearly amused. He ain't, he's frazzled, and a different sort of nerves than the letters he gets from his family.“That your best gal, Barnes?”“Nah, my best pal, Stevie G,” he lights up red like the Christmas ornaments he wont see this year, then frowns.~Turns out Steve wrote the first letter, some 40 years before 1983.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Kodaline [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815748
Comments: 17
Kudos: 241





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Each of the stories in The Kodaline Series will be accompanied by a little soundtrack by Kodaline that inspired the work, either by title, lyrics, feelings or otherwise.
> 
> [Brother (Acoustic), by Kodaline](https://youtu.be/3JHGkQorw-c)

Bucky’s doing a fair job of ignoring the grime between his toes, the dirt under his nails, picking it out with a knife on his cot with his back turned so no one can see, though he’s alone. Like a goddam idiot he lost his soap ration, slipped right outta his hand and scampered away quicker than a street rat, too stark naked to chase after it and ever live it down. He shoulda, the laughs and reprimands be damned, cause for all of that, least he’d smell a bit better, maybe even feel a bit better for it. And now, even if he wasn’t shamefaced and rather rub his skin raw with his own palms than face up to the medical or another NCO to beg for a portion, he’s five days out from pay before he can even buy another. He won’t get away with a dry shave for much longer, though, he's gonna have to think quick smart before next inspection. He's been eyeing up a few of the privates who look normal enough to share a sliver without the fear they've done anything else with it, but even Bucky doesn't want to sink that low. 

He’ll do it all again, even the smell, though maybe next time he'll think to dangle himself in front of the crew chasing a clean, cause sending all his pennies back home is all worth every second of blush and damaged thoughts. Worth it, if it means the heat will stay on in Brooklyn, all winter even, enough for medicines and a full pantry and then even some for his family, just like he instructs in all his letters.

The mud is annoying, though, and for all he bosses, the recipient is too damned a fool to listen to his pleas, even if his eyesight was good enough to read it. It ain’t even that, his illness is in the character, a chronic case of stubborn, his Ma calls it.

“Mails in,” calls a private, Burnie, he thinks the rough jawing is, but Bucky ignores it, like he does six days each week. The Barnses’, for all their scrambles, him included, have done their bit to dutifully send one letter a week, thick wad of papers with tales from each his Ma, Pa and three girls. On those days, after the second week he figured out it was clockwork, he sweet talks the the service lady so he can get to his early morn, and not let anyone else see his heart clenching and eyes welling. They don't care, and he don't care about their own tears and sooks, but too damn bad if he wants once second of privacy for all his efforts for his country. And then, once the hurt settles, he takes his time, a whole week of it, to reply to each with all that he can, and sends it back in a swap for his new mail the next week.

He both loves and hates the letters, squashes a sort of anticipation each week that’s part dread mixed in with the happy. In the same way, when he reads them, speedy the first read then slow all the next, he’s both overjoyed and devastated, wondering how the world is still turning when he’s stuck in some base camp eating nothing but porridge and potatoes, with a gun strapped across his shoulders the whole while to remind him that he's only there to put a bullet between some guys eyes if he's true, then keep eating his porridge.

But they’re good, the reminders that they're safe and far from here, and more than some others get, less than a few.

They’re not the stories Bucky wants though. Disgusted with himself for it, down to his bones and the soul he’s not sure he has even though others believe in him, he’d trade every single word from Winnie and George and all their kin for just a few from someone else.

“Mail, Sarge,” Burnie quips again, but Bucky waves his hand over his head, goes back to slicing away at the dirt that ain’t budge. 

He starts a little when he’s smacked over the head, not in pain but at the shock, some audacity. “Oi, watch it. Can’t ya see I’m armed and dangerous here, slice me fingers off then I’ll be a shit shot, all ya fault.”

“Might get you sent home, not sure I'd be grumblin bout that," and gets a glower for his words, cause the only thing worse than thinking the truth is it actually happening. He's already a disgrace, nothing to do with a discharge, but doesn't need the world to know that too, or anyone else, even if they think it's other reasons. "Fine. Guess I’ll keep ya fancy words to myself, then. Who’s this S.G.Rogers then, and what’s they got to say,” Burnie grins and begins to rip at the letter. Bucky’s too knocked for a moment to stop him, then jumps up, dropping the knife, and snatching wildly at the paper above his head. 

“Nah you didn’t want it, and there’s a few of us without today, so I think we’ll be doing a public reading,” he grins again, weaving away from grabbing hands.

“Giving out dancing lessons in here?” Private Simms pokes through the tent flap.

“Sarge got himself a letter, he don’t want a word of it, so I’ve personally liberated him and we gonna do a showing like that Captain America tour all them flyers keep spouting about. Oi boys,” Burnie hollers, and jumps out, Bucky hot on his heels, to land in the middle of a card game on crates. “Sarge has finally got a letter, and here goes," he boasts to the group’s hoo-rahs and hoots and go-on’s. “Dear Mr Sergeant Sir, glad you got your stink away from me, ain’t missing that, from S.G Rogers. P.S The End.” 

“That don’t sound like the words no mother would give their only son, and you clear as day aren’t a Rogers, so who’s Missus S.G?”

“Stupid Goddam Rogers is who, now give it,” he growls, the group clearly amused. He ain't, he's frazzled, and a different sort of nerves than the letters he gets from his family.

“That your best gal, Barnes?” 

“Nah, my best pal, Stevie G,” he lights up red like the Christmas ornaments he wont see this year, then frowns. He's never called Steve that, but Burnie's face is growing with something he doesn't like, but its a distraction, and he falters long enough for Bucky to pin the long limbs down, crumpling the letter as he pulls it away. 

“Stevie G and Sargey B, is that it? Go on then, what's he say.” 

Bucky smooths the letter, pretending to peek and snapping it shut. Hiding it behind his back, he stands straight, commanding, and they settle, eyes theatrically wide open. He kicks at Simms who has one hand on chin, acting like a schoolboy dazzled by a choir girl. 

“He ain't fit for war, he's the only man left in all New York. He draws, you see,” he says slowly, his composure gained, grinning at the men, winking for good measure. “Lotta lonely dames around and he's bound to see them all, and all of them.” 

“Ah go on Sarge, give us a look,” they cry after Bucky when the meaning sets in, crawling over each other, but he just saunters away laughing.

It’s still wrinkled, he works on smoothing over the envelope that says no more than a Sgt James Barnes and whatever address this middle of nowhere is, a little irked that he has to smooth in the first place. If anything’s gonna crinkle the letters, it’s gonna be from him clutching it tight each re-read, not from some other jerks jokes. Jokes that ain’t funny, not like Steve’s. He dares to hope that there are some jokes in here, he hasn't heard any in a while, but there won’t be. Steve ain’t good with words, more so his jokes come at times that aren’t actually funny and more about his face than his mouth. But actually Bucky doesn’t care what words are in here. The fact that he’s holding a letter is enough.

Ah, nah, it ain’t. He still wants to read them, no matter what they are, even if it's a recipe for cabbage stew.

There’s no following his feet wherever he’s off too, but he’s close enough to a perimeter that the tents are bordering the trees, so he picks a solid looking one and presses his back in, almost more comfortable than his cot. Apparently adjusting to the hard is easy, it’s adjusting back to the soft that’s the worst, if he even makes it back.

He will, he decides firmly although it’s far from his own choice, for no reason other than what he’s holding in his hands. 

A letter from Steve is worth blowing a cigarette this early in the morning, a day which hasn’t otherwise earned it. It burns his fingers to do so, almost drops it through his letter before he fumbles and burns himself again, but after the first few breathes he’s calm enough to set his hands to his task. 

It's not been long, but longer than he'd ever spent away from Steve besides Basic. Part of him almost expected a letter waiting in Europe for him, tucked under the pillow in his cot, Steve was all kinds of thoughtful about the scared and lonely feelings Bucky didn’t want to admit he had about war. But there wasn't, and there hasn't been one since, and his heart hurts for it. His heart, his head, his dreams, all not the same, and it’s barely been two months and a few days, he’s not even seen the war yet. No more than monotonous camps and privates who all sound the same in a country that doesn't speak his language or know his name. 

He’s the furthest he can be from home.

But now, it seems, maybe his home has found him, just a little, it’ll be enough, no matter how many words Steve doesn’t say.

He takes a deep breath in, savoring the drag, and turns it over. 

"Awww, Chicago, Steve, what's you doing, so far from home? The air'll turn bad soon, get your lungs outta there, y'ijit," he murmurs while staring at the thin black letters as if he expects them to respond. 

They don't, the dumb idiot he is when he takes a few seconds just to make sure, he thumbs open the letter which he realises with a start has already been opened. He's angry, that for sure wasn’t Burnie’s doing, but more curious, and a little happy that there’s not much blacked out. Not that Steve should have much that gets censored anyway, unless the radios are telling stories that the front don’t get to hear. That don’t sound too wrong, for all he’s in some sort of charge, Bucky does no more than bumble blindly each day under the higher ups who seem to be doing the same, then instructing his squad to tuck their shirts in while they also do the same.

 _Bucky,  
_ _Cause I ain’t calling you Sergeant Barnes, not yet, not until I’m marshalled to do so._

_Well, I did it. Got myself joined up, official 1A for the US o’ A Army. I'm not allowed to say what, and even if I was I wouldn't tell ya cuz you'd laugh a lung up, sometimes I think I might myself, but I'm doing more than little Timmy that's for sure. I hope._

_If you've been writing, I'm sorry I haven't replied. Haven't been home myself since not long after you shipped out. Got myself to Basic, Lehigh not McCoy so I never got to check out those shower blocks you chattered on about. It's regulated, mind you, standard Army, I'm sure they're all the same, so no I don't agree and you owe me five bucks. Or maybe just one buck - one Buck and that’s you, you come home, you hear?_

_See, something happened not long ago, saw a man shot dead in front of me and for all I don't want to admit, it was goddam awful and not a nice way to go. Better than sickness, for sure, but at least I think that’s always for a reason and at the right time. This, guns, that ain’t God’s doing and for all I’ve seen of it, they take life too early from the people not meant for it. I can't help thinking how it's what you're seeing every day, and worse. I liked the man, called him friendly, maybe even a friend, and I reckon they'll be the same as your guys over there. So I hope you and all your new friends are doing alright. I know you don’t care, but I pray for them, just after you, each night._

_I hope people listen to you more than I ever did, ya bold Sergeant, you. You've had enough practice, bossing me and your sisters around, just one more and we'd be a complete fire team of five, so it’s no surprise. Cept I never want them anywhere near this war either. Got to say goodbye before Basic, Becca told me she was joining up as a nurse. I tried to talk her away, used all the words you did to me, but she’s as stubborn as you so I’m not sure I dented. I did try, Bucky, I did. But like I said, that was only a few days after you, so I hope she changed her mind and they've been writing so you're caught up on New York, not that I think it’s changed much._

_There's lotsa dames where I am Bucky, and they're swell dancers. I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat, even my funny ones that aren’t exactly even, I know you'd love it and take them out a lot better than I could. But I'm hoping to get to you someday, someday soon, to tell you the stories. This new job means that if I do get to you, they’re sure to follow, but you’ll have to promise to make some time for me, alright?_

_But guess what? You'll think I'm fibbing, cause you're not around to call it out, but swear on Sarah Rogers grave it's true._

_I met a real nice lady, Buck._

_Sure have met a few in my lifetime, but none that’ll listen to what I have to say. And I say a fair bit to this one. Stop laughing, I_ _can_ _talk, but nah, that's not the shocking part, for neither of us, what shocks me a bit is she actually talks back._

_But this one, can't even tell you her name, save the posties some black lines, but you'd love her. She’s fierce, and strong, and stands up for nothing less than what’s right. Beautiful, too, that's a bonus I almost can't handle. Could never introduce you of course, not yet, I’m scared she'd be distracted by you, so let me win her over a bit more. If you've got any tips though, I'd take them, cause I sure as hell got no idea what I'm doing, other than run my mouth or use my fists, and that’s never got me anything but trouble. She doesn’t seem to mind a bit of trouble though, and she can handle herself better than anyone I’ve ever seen. Punched a guy, better hook than you, just for speaking her name, and she knocks any thought of stupid out of me before I even think it._

_Reminds me a bit of you, actually._

_But the people I meet in this new job, they’re all a good sort so you can stop the fuss, they’re taking care of me but I don’t need it much anymore, I promise. Speaking of which, you can stop sending your dollars, Buck, or just pass them straight along to your family like I’ve been doing. Make my own lot now, more than what I did on that comic strips job, that’s for sure. I know you won’t understand that joke, but you’ll cry a river of tears when you do. I’ve been putting some of my own away, it’s not much but it pays, and then I’ve been thinking maybe we can go somewhere nice, a holiday for your hard work. I've been a few places, we’re travelling you see, and I’ve liked them all so far. Always found the bits you’d like about them too, but I reckon I’ll let you pick where, won’t even kick up at it if it’s New Jersey. But that’s for later._

_Anyways this new job has got me travelling a bit, I said that. So far Philly, Milwaukee, Buffalo, to name a few, but there’s a few more. If you got time to write back, I hope you’re just twiddling your thumbs and nothing more over there, nothing dangerous, I'd love to hear from ya. I'm not sure it'll ever catch me, you can try on the return address though and I won’t hold it against you if nothing comes through. I do hope this finds you though, even if it’s just paper to burn to keep your hands warm. But I also have a favour, look out for a Private Billy Michaels. He's the brother of a girl here, one of the dancers I was telling you about, voice like a lark too, he's a friend. You'll like him, or at least what he has for you, and he shouldn't be too far behind this letter._

_I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ll be there soon. Believe it or not, I’m actually scheduled to make it to Europe at some point, hopefully no longer than a few months, so I mean it, you stay put until I get there. Don’t win a war, hopefully don’t even see a war, cause I’m bringing a fight to you. See I’m bringing all the stupid you could ever think of me, ~~Peg~~ the lady I mentioned didn’t knock this out, actually it's close to her fault, but you can't hold it against her. It’s probably close to 100 extra pounds, but I'm alright for it, but I can take whatever you’ll throw at me. And it’ll be a lot, you’re better with words than me, but I know you’ll laugh at the end of it once your tempers down. You'll laugh, then I know you'll be happy for it.  
_

_I look forward to that, I do, seeing you and seeing you happy. I know you didn’t want to admit it but the war was as never as good in your mind as you said it to be aloud, in front of your Ma and sisters, and even me. But that’s okay, as long as you get through it, so just keep holding out. If there’s anything I hope I’ve given you in our lifetime of friendship, I hope it’s the right kind of stubborn._

_Anyway, my duty calls, as I'm sure is yours. Thanks for giving me the time of day._

_Your pal, who’ll haunt you to high heaven and deep hell if you don’t come back,  
_ _Steve_

“Huh,” Bucky says, tapping his almost finished cigarette, after the second read through. “Wouldya look at that, lil Steve Rogers got himself a gal,” because from all that Steve’s words do say, there’s not too much he understands. Girls, though, he does, understand somewhat, and Steve mentioned a girl, mentioned a few, but it didn't seem like he had her, but he was interested for sure. And from the sounds of it, he might’ve even taken a few girls out dancing. That’d be a sight, a sight good enough to bring a smile to Bucky’s face even now just thinking about it. Little Steve, with a smile bigger than his face could hold, dancing. He doesn't bother thinking about the girl, no reason for her in this picture. 

Maybe Chicago, or these places he’s travelling, are a better pool for him, the girls smarter, understood what kind of guy he was. How clever, and kind, and a different sort of handsome than maybe what they’d expect, what they didn’t know they actually wanted or needed. Could see him clearly, for all that he was and more, all of Steve compacted into his tiny frame that Bucky reckon couldn’t even fit his heart, let alone his spirit.

Could see him like Bucky always had. 

Good. He’s glad. He _is,_ that’s all the squeezing is, tight round his stomach and tingling his fingertips and cheeks. Glad that he doesn’t sound hungry, or sick, got a few friends that aren’t Bucky, the squeeze is back at that thought, and is working what Steve seems to accept as a real job.

The work does sounds too much for him though, hopefully half of it is sitting and the travel is sleeping, but Bucky’s all for the holiday at the end. Somewhere warm, maybe, he's sick of this cold, and sure Steve would be too after a whole life time of it.

Not that there will be one, an end, for him, he’s sure, but Steve’s good heart and good mind has a good dream, and that’s all he needs.

He also needs to walk the jitters out of his legs, get his heart pumping in a different way, and not goddam cry over an actual fair effort of a letter from Steve. So he does just that, enjoying the last of his cigarette with closed eyes against the tree just in case something leaks out, and heads back to his tent.

“Hey Sarge, show us the drawings!” And all sorts of similar crude words cry out as he passes the men on the crates, their game still going, or a new one started, there's no room left in his heart to care which.

“Nuh uh,” he drawls, tucking the letter inside his uniform, funnily enough ending up near his heart. “They're specifically for my eyes only, Chaplain’s only got so many Hail Mary’s to give out, and he don’t need more sinning from anyone else to tip him over the edge. Without him and God’s good grace, we’re all fucked, so we better keep him from a heart attack. What’s the movement about?” He nods to the rowdy morning, changing the subject, but curious enough about the chatter that’s taking its place in his already running mind.

“Apparently we got back up coming in. American’s, mostly.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Steve had said maybe as much, and Bucky understands, but doesn’t. 

“Hearing rumours we might be heading out soon. Finally put us to use, the guys in I-talia be needing some help to hold the ground a bit.”

Bucky frowns. “Where’d you hear that?”

The private just winks, and that’s enough for Bucky. There are stories he doesn’t need to hear, then stories he definitely doesn’t need to hear, least he actually take himself to confession for even listening. There’s no God for Bucky, not since he was 17 and realised he’d be thrown in jail for his thoughts and not so good, some sick heart. Jail, then hell, an eternal damnation that would never be as hard as living with his secret in his heart and mind and straight up breathing next to, in the same apartment.

He slips the letter out again, he’s not been called upon to do his bit for the reinforcements just yet, and rumours round here ain’t exactly rumours so they might really be getting some action soon. He'll memorise it, tonight, need it for what he is possibly bout to charge into, but for now he wants to just look at the familiar writing, the slanting letters, the piece of home he can now cradle near his heart.

As the day busies on, he can feel it pressing against his chest, to keep him centered, and a little warmer than usual. Enough to put him in a good mood, it’s exciting, and a better day than most with having new troops, new people to like and dislike and laugh at the faces of what they expected war to look like and end up here. None of them are Steve, he still said he was months away, hopefully never, but Bucky finds Steve’s new best pal Billy Michaels, both a little confused when he breaks them from the group to speak to him.

"I'm Bucky. Steve says you're a good guy," he says and puts his hand out.

The private’s no more than a kid, his eyes too bright but they’ll dull soon enough, Bucky’s seen that look a thousand times over, but he stands his ground and shakes firm, "Yeah Sarge, listen we don't gotta be pals. He just wanted me to give you something."

Bucky frowns, but follows the soldier to his tent. He's still frowning as the private digs around his bag, right down to the bottom, unrolls a pair of pants, and pulls out a small, nondescript package wrapped tight with twine and blank paper. 

"The fuck is this?" He asks once he’s handed it. Not bulky, not soft, just is.

"Not my place to ask, then not my place to say. I only said I'd do it cause apparently your guy stopped some fellas hassling my sister, and now she's sweet on him. Woulda done it for the hassling alone, the skirts they gotta wear, but she wouldn't shut up about it, or him, and he promised to make it small enough I could pass it as my own."

"Huh. Do you know if they're together?" This Billy Michaels, his eyebrows fly up, high to his round forehead. "He mentioned some girl, didn't say which. He’s never had much luck, just thought I’d send a thank you back, is all."

"Nah, but she stands in line like every other, waiting her turn to be pushed away," Michaels chuckles, sending Bucky back to frowning. They'd barely lined up like that for Bucky, not that he minded, and not that he thinks any less of Steve, it just seems a far cry from the world he left him in, alone. It is a far cry, he’s reminded, a sad stab to the heart that's only marginally blocked by the letter nesting there. 

"What're they doing?" He asks. “Your sister, and Steve. This is the first I heard of it, as far as I know I left him in Brooklyn with three of my sisters to feed, he’s too sick to get further than out of bed most days.” 

It’s Michaels' turn to look confused. "He said you were funny, but I didn't think like this. Selling War Bonds, touring round the whole bloody country in red, white and blue to do it. It’s big, real big, thought at least you’d have seen it over here, on the radio every other day and movie reels and all sort of Hollywood type things. Your pal leads the show, Carla sings and does her bit, then they’re off to the next town to do it all again. Everyone seems to love it, apparently it’s funding a bit of what goes on here, so it’s not my place to say what a priss show it is. That, and she’ll be here in four months or so, won’t catch me being too happy about that."

Bucky will give him that, and does with twitched eyebrows and tilted head, before he drops his eyes from Michaels' odd stare, instead twirls the twine.

"Listen, keep it quiet will ya? We’ll both be in a lotta trouble if you don't, but me most of all.” All he can do is nod, and turn his attention to the package, it's small enough to shove down the front of his pants, so he does so and heads back to his own tent. 

It does sound laughable, if that’s what Steve meant by his new job, because he’s all sorts of nervous trouble, he couldn't even speak to one person, let alone a group of them. But he seems to be doing well for it, from his letter and what private described, talking to girls and crowds and swindling his way enough to sneak Bucky a package. 

There's no one there, the fuss of the morning has faded, everyone too interested in fresh faces and calm stories from home, but Bucky already has his. He's grateful, he's so curious what it could be that he can't wait a second longer and his mind isn't straight enough to lie if anyone caught him. 

Turns out, it's not much, but it's everything. Much more than the Red Cross ever gave him, but most importantly, it's from Steve, and more of an effort than a letter. 

It's hard candies, his favourite but Steve clearly ate all the orange cause they'd go to waste on Bucky, melted chocolates, a clean handkerchief and some soap, the type his Ma makes, with the flowers pressed hard in it.

Still tucked in the package, is another small paper, and it's that, not the letter or the chocolates, that tears at Bucky's heart so hard it blurs the words in front of him. One side is scribbled, rushed, and just says, _‘Hope you’re doing alright.’_

He’d be lying about the drawings, to the boys before, but not now. It’s only small, barely bigger than a wallet, smudged around the edges and not the level of detail or care that Steve usually put in, as if it was an afterthought, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He far from minds.

It’s what Steve must see, sitting at the table, watching Bucky stare down at the world gone by from the fire escape, the only place he can take a cigarette without Steve drowning in the ash. Not that he’d do it often, couldn’t afford it, not sure he even liked it, but it was just the right excuse, the right barrier, far enough to escape Steve when Bucky couldn’t get a handle on himself, the smoke enough to clear his thoughts of all the wrong he was thinking. All the wrong, that felt so right, that’ll land him in hell. He's been going more so lately, Steve complaining that he sees more of Bucky's back than his front, that he likes the view more than he likes spending time with Steve. For all Steve grumbled about it, wasn't even that special of a lookout, it's what he's drawn for Bucky now. There's the outlines of the window, without Bucky's back in it, the bricks of the apartment next door, clothes hanging dry, even a half capture of the street. A view of _home_.

But that ain't it, just that it's the only place he can think his thoughts and not have his face seen, but still listen to Steve's scribbles and mutters and rattling breath, in the daylight. So yeah, having a picture, of all the sights he sees when he thinks his warm thoughts, that's enough to hit him hard.

He pushes it away, careful not to smudge the graphite or grease the edges.

“Fuck," he swears and wipes at his eyes. “Fuck you, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have plans to make this multi-chapter, but I'm currently working on a long story at the complete other end of the series, so just for now I'm listing it as completed until my mind is clear enough to continue!

**Author's Note:**

> I do have plans to make this multi-chapter, but I am currently working on a long story at the complete other end of this series, so until my mind is clear and free to continue on this, I'll list it as complete and come back to it!


End file.
